


Something Like an Afterglow

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Amelle Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Takes place after the Blade of Mercy/Questioning Beliefs quests in Act III.  Pillow-talk between a mage and a former Tevinter slave may be many things, but it's never boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like an Afterglow

Never would he have thought it before, that _magic_ could be anything less than the enemy.  Magic, after all, had been responsible for all the very worst in his life, had been responsible for everything wrong and bad and twisted in him.  _Magic_ had crafted him into a being capable of little more than hate, blind and burning. 

Magic had done all of this, and yet here he was.  Again. 

Fenris lay in bed with Amelle Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and noted apostate, who was at that moment curled naked around him, looking soft and tousled and deliciously debauched, their bodies tangled together amid the sheets.  This feller of men looked scarcely more dangerous than a sleepy kitten as she stretched one pale arm out across his chest, humming contently and pressing a lazy kiss against his shoulder.

He still couldn't believe he'd ever walked away from this.  For all she was a mage, and should have been easy to turn from, Fenris had found his thoughts lingering on Amelle in a way that had both tempted and maddened him for three very long years.  In that time, he'd both dreaded and yearned for her to appear on his doorstep, tugging him off on yet another errand.  No matter where he followed her, no matter how difficult the battle, the memories of that night taunted him -- and the irony of _that_ did not escape the elf in the least.  Merrill's observation -- astute, and he _hated_ it -- had only caused Fenris to burn with angry embarrassment at the time; he'd been certain Amelle had overheard, certain she thought him a fool, certain she hated him.  He wouldn't have blamed her; he hated himself for leaving.

Fenris looked down at Amelle now, feeling the corner of his mouth turn up as he watched her -- eyes closed, cheeks flushed, and her lips turned in a secretive little grin of her own.

"I swear, Fenris," she murmured, stretching languidly; his breath caught as her skin slid against his.  "If you're planning on dumping me again after that, I _will_ turn you into a toad. See if I don't."

He only chuckled and pressed a kiss into her hair, closing a hand over hers as it rested against his sternum and threaded their fingers.  "You needn't worry about that."

"Oh, good.  I fear you'd make a very poor toad."

He looked at their hands, fingers wound together.  Her hands were smaller than his, paler, and not nearly as scarred or calloused, but they were strong -- of that he had no doubt.  He'd seen more than enough proof of that already. Here was a woman for whom magic was a tool, a skill -- not something to be used as currency or to wield over others as a means to prove her superiority.  Amelle used her magic openly, but she did not, as the Chant of Light dictates, use it to _serve_ man.  She protected and healed those who needed it, not because it was her duty to use her magic to _serve_ , but because she truly wanted to _help_ people, and she was so fiercely determined to do so, Fenris found -- much to his surprise -- he occasionally lost sight of the power and energy that spilled forth from her fingertips. 

He had no idea when he'd first noticed something beyond her magic.  Possibly it had been in the Deep Roads, when the still, hot air had made those heavy velvet robes stick to Amelle's body in a manner as undignified as it was appealing.  She was indeed a beautiful woman -- but beautiful without self-consciousness, without artifice.  She had somehow managed to live her life connected to the Fade, arcane gifts dancing at the ends of her fingers, and yet had remained unspoiled.  Unsullied.

Unsullied to the point that she truly believed it possible that other mages could be like her.  Fenris wasn't sure if it was naïveté or insanity, but he envied her that optimism, either way.

When Amelle had come to Fenris that night, three years ago, empty bottles littered everywhere and exquisite wine on his lips and humming through his veins, he'd nearly taken her offer then and there.  He'd nearly simply _taken_ her, for that matter.  Something, though, had made him wait.  He wasn't sure what that something was -- perhaps a lingering worry that she still was not as she seemed, or that she was simply waiting to betray him.  Or worse, bewitch him.

Oh, how little had he known.

In the end, he'd gone to her later that night, and in an instant she'd banished every one of his misgivings.  Amelle Hawke was no magister.  She wasn't even "Hawke" any longer; she was simply Amelle, her mouth pressed hotly against his as she writhed above and below him, giving herself to him freely, letting him take -- and give -- until they were both sated and exhausted.  But what Fenris hadn't been prepared for -- beyond the exquisite feel of her skin, the clutch of her body moving rhythmically against his, or her fingertips gliding gently, carefully along his markings, as if she'd been afraid to hurt him with such a touch -- had been the rush of memories afterward, and their sudden disappearance. 

For one glorious, shining moment, Fenris _remembered_ ; he knew himself without uncertainty, only to have those memories ripped away all over again.  It ached in a way that surmounted even the agony that had wiped everything away in the first place, leaving these despised markings in its wake.

He hadn't expected Amelle to understand.  He'd stood by the hearth for what felt like hours while she slept, feeling so _idiotic_ trying to explain himself, and he'd been certain that she would hate him for such boundless foolishness.  Instead, she'd responded... calmly, with a quiet certainty that had surprised him.  "We'll work through this, Fenris," she'd said, looking flushed and sleepy and tousled -- so utterly touchable that simply looking at her was enough to test his resolve.

And for three years, she'd remained his _friend_ as he loved her from afar, like some pathetic, lovesick waif.

"Sometimes I can make no sense of it," he said, half to himself.  Amelle lifted her head and looked at him.  After a moment, she winked.

"Well, if you need to do it again, I'm sure I can accommodate you.  We've a great deal of time to make up for."  She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling, as if working out the imaginary figures in her head.  "Yes -- three years, assuming we did that at least once a day... oh, yes.  I fear we'll be stuck in this room for a long while.  Plenty of time for you to make sense of it.  Maybe twice."

The laugh that came out took him almost by surprise -- she had a way of doing that, too.  He didn't recall laughing quite this much before arriving in Kirkwall so many years before.  "That wasn't what I meant."

Amelle smiled crookedly.  "I thought as much.  But I didn't expect you'd tell me if I just asked."  She kissed his jaw.  "What is it you can't make sense of?"

"How you can be so... vastly _different_.  Magic ruins and taints so much -- and yet here you are.  Here _I_ am, which..."  He trailed off.  "At one time I would not have thought remotely possible.  Or likely."

Amelle fell silent a moment, her brows furrowing in thought, smiling only when Fenris smoothed the crease between her eyebrows with his thumb.  "You know," she began slowly, "the mistake people most often make is to believe that magic is fundamentally good or evil in the first place.  It's neither, really," she said, pulling the sheet across his chest and twining one leg firmly around his.

"So you say," he snorted, even as his fingers drifted up her forehead and through the short, soft hair.

"It isn't," she insisted, snuggling closer.  "Every living thing has the capacity for destruction, Fenris.  Humans, elves, dwarves.  We can create just as easily as we can destroy."

"And yet destruction comes more easily to some than others."

"…Comes more easily to mages, you mean?" she countered, and there was a challenge in her voice.

  Fenris let out a deep sigh, but didn't reply.  He didn't have to.

"I get angry, you know," murmured Amelle, rubbing her chin against his shoulder.  "Angry at mages, in particular.  Many, it's true, _are_ treated poorly, and I hate to see so many of them struggle, but there are some..."

She didn't continue right away.  He gave her silence and waited as she filled it. 

"I was never taught that my magic made me better or worse than anyone else.  I was never taught that it made me special _or_ cursed _._   Bethany and I weren't allowed to taunt or tease Carver with our magic.  He was our brother, and not having any arcane ability did not detract from that.  We loved him, and he loved us -- for all he was a blighted pain sometimes.  We were taught to respect each other, and not to lord our abilities -- or lack thereof -- over each other."

"That doesn't mean--" he began to argue, but she cut him off, pressing her fingers against his lips.  He caught the pad of one finger with his teeth and felt a surge of satisfaction as Amelle shivered, then recovered herself.

"Fenris, you have an ability no one else has."

Fenris arched an eyebrow at her, letting his lips twist into a smirk.  She blushed.

"I didn't mean _that,_ " she muttered, swatting him.  "I meant…" Here, she took his hand and placed it over her breast.  Beneath his palm, her skin felt warm, and heart beat a slow, steady pulse.  "You could end me at any moment.  Right now, if the urge took you, you could reach in and tear out my heart."

The truth of her words, the simple, calm way she delivered them, made something cold twist unpleasantly in Fenris' gut.  It was true, of course.  He could do exactly that.  And the act alone would have very likely killed him.

"I would never," said Fenris, hating the way his throat closed so traitorously.

"I know.  And I also know that that has nothing at all to do with what you are -- elf, former slave, or anything else -- and has everything to do with _who_ you are."

He let out a dry chuckle.  "Convenient, when I don't even know who I am."

"Well, then, can I tell you who I see?"  Soft lips pressed against his shoulder, up to the curve of his neck as she whispered those words in his ear.  He let out a convulsive shiver and nodded.

Amelle propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him, the length of her body pressing against his. "I see a deadly warrior whose bravery is without equal. I see a man with no tolerance for artifice. I see..." He could nearly feel her eyes as they roamed over his face. Green met green for a moment, then her gaze flicked down to his lips, up to his hair, and it was a wonder the intensity of her stare was not more unnerving.  "I see a man who will _discover_ who he is, if he cannot remember it."

"You see a man who could reach into your chest and tear out your heart."

She sent him a rueful smile. "I see a man who could do that with his words just as easily as his hands." She leaned close and pressed a kiss against his cheek. "But my point remains. You are more than the sum of your parts, Fenris. Having a skill or an ability does not, by default, make us evil. It is what we _do_ with it."

"You are connected--"

"To the Fade.  Yes."

"So why are _you_ able to withstand the whispered promises of demons when so many others cannot?"

She sunk against him with a sigh that was tinged with sadness -- and not a little bitterness -- and Fenris let his hand slide to the small of her back, where his fingers traced slow circles across the skin.  "Father escaped from the Circle in Kirkwall, and he told Bethany and me only tiny scraps of what it was like.  What do you suppose happens when you grow up being told you're cursed?  That you're a mere stone's throw from utter madness and destruction, and that you're destined to become a tool for all of the worst beings in the Fade?  What do you suppose happens when you're taught to fear not only what you can do, but what you are and what you may become?"

"I think the mages _should_ fear it, Amelle."

She shook her head, looking up at him.  The fire glowed behind her, casting most of her features in shadow, but her eyes gleamed in the dimness.  "Fear isn't the answer, Fenris.  Fearing what exists inside of you, fearing you'll become a monster, fearing you have no option, no control...  That fear only makes a mage weak. Demons are not stupid, Fenris -- they know our weaknesses.  You saw it yourself in the Fade."

He grimaced, looking away.  "I know.  I told you--"

"I don't blame you for what happened, Fenris.  I can't.  The demon knew your weakness -- knew what you wanted most, and exploited it.  If a mage lives in fear that there's a _chance_ he's going to become an abomination, then that fear is precisely upon what a demon will prey.  By making the mages fear themselves, the templars are inadvertently creating the very abominations they have to fight.  Yes, there are some men -- and women -- who are simply evil, or mad, and magic in their hands is a dangerous thing indeed.  But it is not the magic that made them go mad, or made them decide to commit foul deeds; there was something wrong with them to begin with.

"The man-- the _beast_ that killed my mother should have been found and caught far earlier.  And I find myself wondering why the templars were not hunting _him,_ " she spat, "but rather harassing apostates, or turning little girls Tranquil so they might do their bidding.  For all that Meredith claims to see blood magic everywhere she turns, she reprimanded Ser Emeric, but was happy to waste our time on ridiculous errands, like that fool Emile de Launcet."

Fenris scowled at the memory.  "It was a mistake to let him go, you know."

She sighed and slumped against him.  "I don't think it was."

"Because you felt sorry for him."

"Well, yes," conceded Amelle.  "The man was an idiot.  Of course I pitied him."

"Or he was more cunning than you gave him credit for being."

She propped herself up again and gave him a _look_.  "If he was all that cunning, I'm surprised you didn't step in when he attempted to proposition me."

Fenris paused, feeling his cheeks grow warm.  "Yes.  Well."  He stopped and cleared his throat.  "I myself had been wrestling with a particular brand of idiocy at the time.  I can hardly be blamed.  Besides, you have more than proved that you can watch after yourself.  I didn't think you would have appreciated the gesture."

"Uh huh.  Odd that you stepped in when _Anders_ attempted to speak to me about you."

Fenris pushed himself up on one elbow and arched an eyebrow at her, but Amelle only grinned at him.  "He called me a _wild dog._ "

"My _point,_ " she said, poking him in the ribs and sending him back against the pillows, "is that most mages are taught to fear their magic, to fear what they might become, rather than _respect_ their magic for what it is: a powerful, potentially destructive force.  You must have _respect_ for that power, first and foremost -- that is the first lesson Bethany and I had to learn: a mage must understand and his or her power, must not abuse it _or_ their connection to the Fade.  Other mages aren't taught that, and so they succumb to demons out of desperation and fear.  Maybe the templars think keeping the mages afraid of every little thing is the way to control them, but it's _not_.  They are pushed beyond what they can tolerate, and when a demon approaches them with pretty promises that he can help them survive, help them be stronger, help them withstand anything, they give in.  Because at that point, I suspect some people are willing to believe anything."

"And others?"  The question was too pointed for her to miss.

"Anders, you mean."  He felt his lip curl and she nodded.  "Yes, I thought so."  Here, Amelle sighed.  "Anders is laboring under the misconception that he is operating toward the greater good.  No good at all can come of allying oneself with a Fade Demon."

"Not a spirit  he can control, like he insists so often?"

She sighed.  "He's deluding himself, I fear.  I don't... know what he is, or what he's done, or even what the effects might be.  Sometimes he speaks as if he and Justice are two people, and sometimes..."

"You think he's lying to you."

Amelle shook her head.  "I _worry_ he's lying to me."

"He _is_ lying to you."

A tired sigh then a weary, "Fenris," was enough to make him subside. 

"I only wish to know why you tolerate him so, Amelle.  You two are hardly friends, and any fool can see he will only bring you pain in the end.  Why do you insist on keeping him close?"

He saw Amelle's answer in her eyes -- that wretched flash of pain before she looked down.  "You'll think me a fool."

"I thought that was my line."  After a moment, he sighed and reached down, letting his fingers linger against her cheek.  After several hearbeats of silence, he knew. "You believe you can save him."

"I see so much of my father in him, Fenris," she replied, her voice growing thick, suddenly.  "I cannot abandon him to whatever fate may await him, whatever idiocy lies on his path.  There must be a reasonable man somewhere inside of him, and I... I must find it.  I have to help him."

"I do not believe he wants your help, nor does he think himself in need of it."

"I have to try.  He _can_ be a good example.  I believe that."

Whether Anders was capable of such a thing, Fenris was not convinced.  But Amelle appeared to believe it, and so he held his tongue, promising himself that he would simply remain by Amelle's side, should the worst happen.  He had no influence over the mage -- Fenris knew that much.  But... well.  Only time would tell.  Fenris, however, did not consider it likely Anders would impress or astonish him in the near or distant future.

Letting out a deep breath, Amelle rested against Fenris once again, fingertips slowly tracing a line up and down his sternum.  He felt the gentle tingle of healing magic dance against his skin and he wondered what, exactly, she was trying to heal -- or if it was a conscious effort at all.  "I want things to change as much as the next mage," she said quietly, rubbing her thumb over one thick, jagged scar running along his abdomen, "but people seem only able to swing between wild extremes.  On one end you've got the Tevinter Magistry, and on the other hand, you've got the Chantry insisting 'Magic is meant to serve man.'"  She couldn't quite keep the mocking tone from her voice.

"And never enslave him," Fenris added, pointedly.

"It wasn't _magic_ that enslaved you, Fenris.  It was a man.  A horrible, vile man -- and one who happened to be a mage.  You said yourself that the Tevinters would enslave their own kind -- if mages will be enslaved by mages, then it isn't _magic_ that's bad: it's man."

"Men who still happen to be _mages_ , Amelle."

"You know," she said, shifting fluidly on the bed and rolling on top of him.  Fenris blinked up at Amelle, who only propped her chin in her hand as she looked down at him.  "You _know,_ " she said again, "if the templars actually _shared_ their secrets on how to _combat_ mages with everyone else, then that would even out the balance of power, don't you think?  People would be better equipped to defend themselves against mages -- _but,_ that would make the templars just a little less special, and then the Chantry would lose its private army."

He stared at her for a long moment.  "You would have _everyone_ know how to disarm a mage?"

"I can dispel magic, Fenris -- even I have to know how to disarm a mage -- it's not entirely the same thing, but the principle's similar enough.  It's a handy skill for a fighter to have, and one the templars keep very, very secret.  They claim to protect people from magic and apostates and maleficarum and abominations, but what they're actually doing is making people _dependent_ on them, which consequently allows room for corruption within the ranks -- which, may I remind you, we've seen."

"And would you have common people addict themselves to lyrium as well?"

She arched a skeptical eyebrow.  "You're assuming lyrium is necessary for what the templars do."

"You sound as if you're not convinced."

She only shrugged.  "Perhaps I'm not.  I can tell you that I've yet to be bested by a templar in Kirkwall, most of whom are probably addicted to lyrium in some way, shape, or form.  I've been hurt more by their swords than their lyrium-enhanced smiting.  But you have to admit, the lyrium keeps them quite loyal."

"Your brother counts himself among their ranks, you realize."

Amelle's expression softened as her eyes dropped.  "Yes.  I know.  And I worry for him every day."  She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it.  "Regardless, magic doesn't make us better or worse -- it's what we do with that magic that matters.  Why do I have no trouble resisting the call of the Fade demons?  I have no Circle training -- I should, by their logic, be an unapologetic abomination by now."

"This is... not untrue."

"Mmh.  Tell me, Fenris: is your sword evil?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your sword."  She smiled, suddenly.  "And no, I do not speak in metaphor.  Your actual sword.  Is it evil?"

"Don't be absurd.  It is inanimate."

"But in your hands, it is all but an extension of you."  She held up one hand and he could see the faintest ripples of arcane energy dancing around her fingertips.  "With a sword, one can defend just as easily as attack.  A templar with a big sword on his side could end me.  We are all assuming the worst of each other, each side declaring the other inherently evil, and it does neither side any credit."

"What would _you_ do, then?"

"Change how we educate mages _and_ people about magic.  Change how we _view_ magic, how we understand it.  As I said, people fear magic because they do not understand it, and have no means to control those who use it. And those people, in turn, teach mages to fear their power -- which eventually means that the power rules the mage and not the other way around. They think -- mistakenly -- that if they can teach the mages to fear their own power, then that in turn gives them power over the mages.  But I don't believe it works that way -- it only tips the balance of power in favor of the demons."

"And do you expect me to feel sorry for them?"

She let out a breath.  "In a way, I do feel sorry for them.  They're caught in a system that is very, very broken."

"You sound like Anders."

"Well, I do agree with him on that much. The way things are right now doesn't work.  But I at least understand there is a need for the templars -- and I say that as someone who spent most of her life running from them.  Three-fifths of my family were apostates, remember.  We never stayed in one place for long.  But even their role, I am convinced, needs to be restructured -- why was Ser Alrik hunting some _child_ when a monster like Quentin was running around?" 

"I could give you an answer, but I suspect neither of us would particularly like it."

Amelle sighed suddenly and dropped her head forward, resting it against Fenris' chest.  Dark hair tickled his chin, and he slowly wound his arms around her, pulling her closer, until their bodies were flush.

"The argument goes in circles, Fenris.  If one side -- _just one_ \-- would listen to reason, perhaps..."   She trailed off and tucked herself closer, her arms snaking around him.  "But the longer nobody listens, the worse it's going to get."  She looked up at him, now so close Fenris could feel the heat radiating from her skin.  Their breath mingled, and she rested her forehead against his.   "And _that_ is what scares me, more than any demon in the Fade.  I don't know what's going to happen, and I don't know how to stop it."

"And perhaps alone, you cannot."

"I beg your par--"

"But I will be there," he broke in, pinning her with the weight of his gaze.  "By your side, no matter what happens."  He cradled her face in his hands, thumbs slowly stroking her cheeks.  "You are not alone, Amelle.  Not anymore."  And for a moment, Fenris let a tiny smile warm his lips.  "I daresay neither of us are."


End file.
